Ghost
by TutsTemplar
Summary: AU. AH. Bella was devasted at age fifteen by a gruesome event. She hasn't talked for 3 years, and now lives at Chicago's Twilight Sanitarium. Everyone thinks that she's braindead, to put it nicely, except for her new doctor. Was "Accident". Now "Ghost."
1. A 1 On the Jukebox

_Oh, wow. This is going to be my first multi-chaptered story. Ominous and fear-inspiring. Ooooh. _

_Sorry I haven't written anything in the last little while, if any of you out there even care. I've entered a writing competition. I have to write a 240 page book, that's actually good, by the end of November, early December. If I win this competition (which I doubt I will) my novel is published. _

_Oh, snaps, eh? _

_Anyways, this story is being written with the permission of one Bellgren, who wanted to see her ideas written by others._

_Now, please review, for not only my, (since it makes me very happy and alleviates my stress **I now look at you meaningfully. Yes, you. Remember, I know where you live…** but also review for Bellgren, and praise her creative genious, or for knowing what she wants… take your pick._

_Oh, and by the way, rated M for safety… I'm paranoid, and use cussing often. Forgive my impudence. _

_And here… we… go. _

**Accident.**

**Chapter One: A 1 On the Jukebox.**

**POV: Kevin Harrison. **

"Good God, Molly, that smells absolutely fantastic." My arms wrap around my wife, the palms rubbing against the rough material of her heavily starched apron, stained with the many years of cooking Molly had behind her.

"It's your favorite, of course it smells good." She stirs the scrambled eggs within the pan with the wooden spoon she held within her calloused hands.

"Mmm. It's a shame that William isn't here."

"I swear, you passed your voracious appetite on to the boy. Why else would he eat as much as he does?"

"He's a growing boy, Molly."

"A growing boy indeed. I could understand that, if he didn't scarf back fifteen pancakes at breakfast last week."

"He's active, let him eat as he pleases."

"Your call. I don't envy Karen, thought. She's going to have her hands full with all those boys sleeping over at her house. She'll never fill William's stomach, poor woman." Molly smiles to herself, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards. "Sit down. The eggs are ready, the toast is up, and the bacon's on the table."

"Thanking you very much, Adorable." I invoke her old pet name, one that I hadn't called her in quite some time.

"I don't deserve that name, not after the last twenty pounds or so."

"It's called baby weight, Adorable." I take her hand in mine, smiling encouragingly. "And you look fantastic."

"Flatterer." She chides, but, nonetheless, brings my hand to her lips, and gives my fingers a light kiss, before placing my hand back down on the table.

In the momentary silence, I can hear the radio on the kitchen counter faintly produce the words, "Number one on today's jukebox, from talented singer Alanis Morissette," before Molly asks me "Do you want the morning paper?"

"I would love to have the morning paper." I say. "Please."

Molly unties her apron, and walking into the relatively small front hallway, opens the front closet door, and hangs the apron up within it.

Upon closing the closet door, she opens the green front door, and bends down to pick up the paper, previously wedged between metal and wood.

"Well, if I had known it was there, I would have gotten it myself!" I object, frowning.

"Oh, pish posh. What's an extra few steps in the morning, hmm?" My hands barely reach up in time to catch the newspaper she had flung at my face. My hands still in the air, I tilt my head to the side, to stare her dead in the eyes. I quirk an eyebrow, and she smirks at me lovingly.

She then sits down in the chair opposite mine, and with a wave of her hand, commands, "Dig in."

"I thought you'd never get to that." I immediately fork a heaping spoonful of egg into my awaiting and salivating mouth. Mid chew, I tear the elastic off the newspaper, discard it on the floor, which earns me a withering look from Molly, before opening it to the front page.

The boldly printed words **The Forks Editorial**, in elegant type, is scrawled at the top of the page.

It is not that mundane thing which catches my eye, however. Instead, my eye is drawn to the caption **Nightmare on Ninth Street**.

My mouth goes dry. Ninth street. Good god, no, hopefully to God, no….

"What's wrong, Kevin?"

I hold up a finger, gesturing for Molly to hold her thoughts for a moment. My eyes move downwards, to continue reading the article.

**It seemed as though it would be a night like any other. The weather was exceptionally beautiful for dreary yet welcoming Forks, Washington yesterday. So, of course, it goes without saying that no one could have ever guessed the terrible massacre that was to occur late last night. **

**Widow Mrs. Bryson of Ninth Street awoke late last night- one in the morning, to be precise – to the terrifying sound of a gun shot, from her neighbors house. Concerned, she immediately phoned the police, who arrived on seen instantaneously. **

**They broke in to the Swan residence, fully prepared for the worst. But even that wasn't enough to steel them from the horror that awaited them within the Swan residence.**

**Upon breaking into the house, police officers Sam Littrel and David White, along with their team, discovered – continued on page 7.**

"Shit, shit, shit." I nearly shred the newspaper in my hands to bits, trying to reach the last bit of the article. Revolted anticipation bubbled like a horrid disease in my chest, pressing my heart, up and up, into my throat.

I continue reading the article, upon reaching page 7.

**Carnage the likes of which Forks has never seen, in all its long years. The hallway was a mess; furniture, shoes, and coats littering the ground, signifying that a struggle had occurred in that room.**

**But it wasn't that that alerted the police that something was very wrong. No, it was the stench of decay and rot, metallic, and bile-raising, the smell of carnage one only expects to find on the battle field. **

**The living room was much like a war zone. Chief Charlie Swan, off duty for the week, and his wife, Renee Swan, lay in pools of their own blood. Red covered the walls in lengthy spatters, the once light yellow a stain of gore. **

**They were not rushed to hospital. They were proclaimed dead upon the sight of the incident. **

"Oh, my God, shit, shit, no, please, no…"

"Kevin, please what's wrong?"

"Charlie's dead." My words are nothing but an insubstantial whisper.

Molly, however, hears them.

Her glass drops to the floor, shattering upon impact, cranberry juice creeping along the linoleum floor, slow and sticky.

Just like blood.

Molly is immediately at my side, her arms wrapped around me, whether for my comfort or her own, I am unable to discern, nor do I care.

Her words are forced, tight and flooded with unshed tears. "How?"

"I… I don't know." I look at the newspaper, clutched so tightly in my hand my knuckles slowly grew whiter and whiter, the skin taut over creaking knuckles.

I want to know what happened. But I don't want to know.

I look down at the article once more.

**Both of them had received a remarkable amount of injuries, sustained by several different injuries. Cuts along their faces were the work of machetes; several crushing blows to the arms and legs suggest a blunt object, yet to be discerned. The weapon of death, however, was a semi-automatic handgun, the shot of which being the one that had awoken Mrs. Bryson. This was proved by the type of bullet found within a wall in the living room, a misfired shot. **

**There is no word yet on who is behind this heinous crime. Robbery was not the motive, as nothing is missing from the house. Renee Swan showed no signs of rape, leaving that out as a possible motive as well. Many debate that it may have been an attack fueled by Chief Swan's gang hunting in Seattle last year, after he the apprehended the notorious Newborn Gang, much to the appreciation of Seattle police. **

**There is but a singular witness to this crime, and that is young Isabella Marie Swan, the daughter of Charlie and Renee. She is currently under urgent care at Forks hospital, and is unable to give any information, in such a state of emotional trauma, that she is unable to speak, or respond to any human in any way. **

**This is to only be expected, of course, as she was witness to the murder of her parents. This police know for certain, as they found her cowering underneath the dining room table, which is adjoined to the living room. She was hidden from her parents murderers by a long table cloth. They couldn't see her, but she could see them, their every move, every sin. **

**All of Forks' and Seattle's police efforts are being put into this case already, as a tribute to the best Chief of Police our town has ever known, and his loving wife. **

**It is uncertain as to whether or not Isabella will ever recover from the disastrous event. Already plans are being made should she be unable to recover. Talk is being made of sending her to the best Mental Infirmary in the United States, Chicago's Twilight Sanitarium. **

**More to be written as soon as further evidence is revealed.**

"Oh my God, poor Bella." 'Poor' came nowhere near to covering it. I don't think that there is a word powerful enough to accurately describe Bella's situation.

She was always such a reclusive girl. Shy, but astoundingly gorgeous and kind. She had such a hard time relating to kids, being as mature as she is.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Kevin. I know Charlie was a good friend of yours." Molly's tears roll down her rounded cheeks, falling onto my clothing-shielded shoulder.

"Don't apologize to me." I say mutedly. "Say sorry to Bella. She saw it all."

Molly's hands fly upwards to cover her mouth, her eyes wide with shocked horror.

"Oh my God, no, no. Not her."

I cover my face with my hands, dropping the newspaper, which falls onto my lap. "They think she's gone barmy."

"Who wouldn't, after seeing that?" Molly's eyes suddenly steel over with rage. "Who did this? Who the _fuck_ did this? I'm going to tear them to bloody _pieces_."

"They don't know." I murmur, wiping away a tear of my own with my left hand. "They suspect it may have been a member of the Newborn Gang in Seattle."

"Why did attack them? Charlie's brought down plenty of other gangs! The La Push Guardians, the Ancients, from Italy, and countless others. He's a world-renowned gang catcher. It's what he does-" She pauses to swallow. "_Did_ best."

"I don't know Molly." I pull at my hair, grasping the roots. "Oh, God."

"How will we tell William? He had the largest crush on Bella." Molly shakes her head.

We look at each other. And that, I think, is when it really hit us, the full implications of the situation.

We both break into sobs, mine quiet and partially reserved, Molly's heavy and tearing.

We didn't know how long it would take for the town to recover from this. Charlie and his wife were greatly loved.

The even greater question was this, however.

What impressions would this leave on fifteen-year-old Bella?

**Okay, so that's chapter one. Hallelujah and all that jazz. So, review, if you think Edward is yummy, or an aggravatingly self-pitying pubescent, Bella is a heroine of perfection, or an intolerable whining brat.**

**Honestly, I cam work with it either way. I'm just trying to encompass every twilight fan. Especially those who only read the books for the villains. I know that's what I felt like, after reading the series for the fourth time …. (I think Laurent is yummy…)**

**So, anyways, review, please. The more reviews, the faster the chapters come. **


	2. An Apolitical Blues

**Wow, how long has it been since I posted the first chapter of this story? I feel like a jerkwad right now…. Things haven't been the easiest for me lately, although that's no excuse. Oh, guess what? My teacher nearly gave me a heart attack the other day. We get a peek at our report card's and in English, he said I got an 84 in reading, and 85 in writing, and a 90 in Oral and Visual Communication. In my school, the eighties are an A- and an A, and the nineties are all A+, but in varying range. I know, it seems okay, right? Well, as an Enriched English student, I expect better then that in my grades, especially since las t year, I got a 95 in reading, a 94 in writing, and a 95 in oral and visual communication. So, anyways, my tacher comes up to a me a day or so after showing me my 80s, and says that he was actually looking at someone else's marks, when he typed up my report card, and that my reading and writing marks were actually in the 90s, and that my oral mark is higher! As you can imagine, I was pretty pissed. I nearly had a mental breakdown at home the night I was shown the rough draft of my report card (pathetic, I know, but that's the way I roll). However, I couldn't say anything, because I was in the middle of a 24 hour vow of silence for the charity Free the Children, otherwise known as Me to We. On the bright side, however, I have my first 'A' in science ever. An 81! Woo-hoo! My dad's very proud of me, (this is where I smile in an overly retarded and enthusiastic manner) because my math and science marks are up in the 'A's. I'm now freaking out because I'm preparing to go to high school, and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing. **

**Anyways, sorry for this overly long A/N, and without further ado, here's the chapter!**

* * *

**An Apolitical Blues; BPOV; **

Dreams are meant to be an escape. A refuge, for those of us who walk – or drag- themselves through the day, their only motivation the promise of a warm, soft bed, and sweet oblivion, supplied by the dreams of innocence we give to ourselves.

I have none of this. I do not have a warm, soft bed: my sheets are cheap wool, scratchy and falling apart at the seams, to barren to be warm, with a mattress stuffed with lumps of unidentifiable material crammed tightly into a too-small cot; nut even my pillow offers any comfort, hard, too hard, and foul smelling, issuing an odor with an unpleasant, sour smell, like spoiled milk. The underside of it is stiff and stained, with what, I do not wish to know.

As for my dreams- if I had but one wish right now, it would be for me to have no dreams; to simply drift in unconsciousness, unbothered by any trivial matters, or any deep wounds, simply too deep to be mended by the harsh waves of time.

You see, when I dream, it is not pleasant things that dance through my mind. It is a terrifying whirl of blood; a cascade of gore; a dance of pure terror, one in which I am eternally partnered with fear. The fear of the shadows; fear of the things that go bump in the night. Fear of the past that haunts me, and what it is that stalks me.

Fear of myself.

I roll onto my back, arms wrapped around my chest, holding myself together, as best I can- it does little. I've never found something to stem the pain, ebb the flow. I doubt that I ever will.

Light penetrates my eyelids, coloring the skin, forcing me to remember that it is morning.

Not that I have a schedule. I can sleep until about 10 A.M., at which point a nurse will deliver me my breakfast, which varies, depending on the day of the week.

Today is Wednesday, which means porridge. I hate porridge. It is tasteless and vile, slimy and sticky.

It is not, however, the meal that I dread the most. The food is nothing. It is, rather, the nurse that I would prefer to have tossed in a garbage can.

She is a short thing, shorter then I, which unusual indeed, as I stand at a mere 5"4. She barely clears 5"3, and even that is only with the assistance of her massive tangle of curls, a frizzy brown catastrophe no doubt born of excessive hair-spray.

Her name is Jessica Stanley, from what I have collected. I listen, I pay attention to each little detail- that is something I do, as best a distraction as I can get, perfection within a world of chaos; that is my sole salvation now.

However, that is drifting off topic. It is quite clear that nurse Stanley dislikes me as much as I dislike her.

No one likes me. Not even the other patients. I suppose, in a way, I've earned it. I have not talked since the night my parents died, those three years ago. I do not even display any behavior whatsoever that I even comprehend what people say to me.

I've gained the status of "mental cripple" here in the Twilight Sanitarium. And, as such, am treated with little respect. I am called names, am treated cruelly, like an animal, almost, insulted in the worst of ways. Because I am not expected to retaliate.

And I don't.

I don't see the pint in it. What satisfaction will it give me? Will it bring my parents back to life? Improbably. Impossible.

The funny thing, however, is the fact that the Twilight Sanitarium is supposed to be the best Sanitarium in the United States. Yet it treats its residents so cruelly.

I suppose, in some twisted way, that that is what makes this Sanitarium so efficient a place- it simply scares its residents back into sanity.

And that is where it fails to meet with my needs- not that they shall ever be met by any place.

The reason this place cannot help me, is because I am not insane. I am merely broken, in spirit and in mind. And there is nothing that can fix that sort of thing. I am not to be mended. I came to terms with that as best I could years ago.

I wish so very much that I could be normal once more. That I could go to school, and struggle in math like every other, cry over the stupidest things, gossip with friends, and fawn over the cutest boys in school.

But I don't think that I'll ever be able to do any of those things ever again. Its simply to normal, mundane- and those mundane things are what I miss, because that are the simplest and most necessary of pleasures, yet too close to my past, always tearing at my heart at the slightest of innuendoes. A dagger in my heart, twisting and ripping, leaving me broken and bleeding on the inside once more.

Just a day. One day, it's all I ask. One day without the pain, the suffering. I don't care how it comes about, as long as it happens. I can fall into a coma, I can be dragged into some shadowed corner, unconscious, to be murdered by an inmate of Twilight Sanitarium. Either way, I can offer my synergy.

I open an eye. All I see is the white of the walls. The white of the ceiling. The pale wood of the floors.

I open the other eyes, rolling my head to the side, staring at my room.

If there is one positive thing to be said of Twilight Sanitarium, it is this; the accommodations are pleasant enough, if one pays enough for boarding. The town of Forks pays for my housing.

At the mention of Forks, the blade in my heart jerks violently once more.

To distract myself, I cast my eyes about the all too familiar room.

My room is spacious, which, in its lack of furniture, gives off more of a mien of emptiness. Very few pieces of furniture are in my room. A wardrobe in the far left corner, several feet to the right of that, a small desk and wooden chair. A overstuffed armchair striped with white and yellow is in the far right corner.

My favorite feature of the room, however, is the window on the far left wall.

It bulges out from the rest of the wall, enabling a small rest, which is covered with a long, rectangular cushion.

I have spent countless days sitting there, staring out the window into the outside world.

The Sanitarium is surrounded by a large park full of trees and flowers and shrubbery. The park itself is enclosed by a ten-foot-tall stone wall, with black iron spikes protruding every inch or so from the top.

I can't remember the last time I smelled fresh air.

I can't remember the last time I felt the cool caress of the wind,

I can't remember the last time I felt the welcoming sensation of sunrays on skin.

Neither can I recall the tickle of grass upon my bare skin, the chirping of birds as they sang from where they are perched in the trees, nor the welcome feeling of rain drops kissing my skin.

I have seen it all from my room, which I always try my hardest not to leave. However, I am weekly subjected to "socialization" with the other inmates of this Sanitarium. Apart from that, I never leave my room, not even for the bathroom, as there is a door close to my bed that leads into an adjoined washroom, complete with bathtub- no shower. Showers used to be my favorite.

There is a knock on the door leading into the hallway, and the heavy metal of it makes a loud, low screeching noise of protest as it swings inwards, revealing nurse Stanley, standing there with her expression of pure contempt, as she strides in, with disdain and repugnance, towards me.

She sets it down on the floor in front of me, before tearing my sheets off of me. "Get up." Her voice is hard and steely.

I do not comply, merely lying the way I have been for the past many minutes.

"I said, get UP!" Her fingers put harsh pressure upon the flesh of my arm, as she drags me up into a sitting position. When she releases me, I do not move, merely stay in the position she has placed me in.

"Eat." She commands.

My eyes gaze at her, through her, glassy and distant.

"Fine. Starve. I don't give a damn."

I do not move.

She stoops down a little to my level. "Jesus Christ, you don't see shit, do you?" Her hand waves in front of my face. "Little shit." She swears, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Hey? Hey you! Can. You. Hear. Me?"

I do nothing. Say nothing.

She places two fingers on the skin of my hand, pinching my flesh between two manicured nails, cutting into my skin.

It stings harshly, and she applies more pressure.

My eyes water, yet I do not blink, do not respond, give her no hint that I am aware of anything she is doing.

She withdraws her hand, and as she does so, I can feel beads of hot liquid trickle down the back of my hand, between the crevices between my third and fourth finger.

"Fuckin' freak." Nurse Stanley says, exiting the room, her voice a low mutter, for her ears only. Yet they reach mine, but only because to her, I have none.

As the door closes behind her with another shriek, and a small click, I finally look down, down at my hand.

Crimson red stains the porcelain white of my skin, stains my chemise-like night gown, white as snow. The contrast between my blood and the material is a startling one.

I turn to tray. Porridge, a glass of milk, a wedge of grapefruit.

My stomach growls, a slight sound, but I ignore it. Bile churns to greatly in my stomach for me to contemplate eating this morning. It would be a waste of effort, for it to only be thrown up the way it came down.

With this thought, I stand. I grab my white house coat, a thin material that still manages to give off slight warmth, and slide in on over my night gown, walking in small, shuffling steps towards my window, sitting down on the cushioned seating carved into the wall beneath the window.

There, I relax my back against the wall, legs drawn up, into my chest, arms wrapped around them, my cheek resting against the harshly cold pane of glass, barred by metal on the outside, as spatters of rain begin to fall from the cloudy sky, the sky weeping as I have, so very many times.

**End of chapter 2. This goes out to Bellgren, for letting me do this story. You rock! Sorry I haven't updated in a while. **


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